We Used To Live Here

by Daniel Hurst

They say you should never judge a book by its cover. But what about a house?

I smile at the younger woman, hoping that she is aware that one day, as she climbs the career ladder and grows her income, she could have a property like this too. I’m just older than her, so I’m a little ahead. She has the advantage of fewer years taking their toll on her body, but I have the advantage of having more years to have earned a wage. She’ll catch me up eventually, and when she does, she’ll probably long for the days when she was poor yet young and energetic again.

But we’ve moved now and left those markings behind, and who knows, the new owners might have already painted over them. I couldn’t blame them if they have because those markings hold no sentimental value for them. They only matter to the people who wrote them in the past. Like this marking here.

I see that this is all very cosy and cute, but it doesn’t distract me from the fact that this is still very weird.

“If only the walls could talk, I’d bet they would have some interesting stories to tell.”

I don’t deserve her. But I have her. And I’m never going to let her go.

I just didn’t realise until later how much he really had on there.

But I suppose the biggest positive of all that I am grateful for right now is that my stupid affair is 100% over, and it appears I have gotten away with it.

These words have been scratched into the wall in deep, desperate grooves, and as I read all the various messages, I realise the one I had been worried about pales in comparison to these.

Heading back downstairs with my daughter in my arms, I’m troubled by the latest discovery in this house.

Don’t grow up too fast, kid. Things aren’t as simple when you do.

As far as stress relievers go, there’s none better than being around an innocent child who doesn’t demand anything of you other than a little love.

But he has no idea that, in reality, my search for the truth behind it is only just beginning.

An example of the author’s many unenthusiastic, vanilla and downright obvious statements that frustrated me. This is a psychological thriller; we are expecting there to be more shocking truths along Steph’s obnoxious and flavourless search. In fact, we want it. We’re desperate for it. It’s all that kept us going until the end of this book. These eerie, cliff hanger-style finishing sentences at the end of each chapter are unnecessary, and a poor attempt at creating an air of mystery around an otherwise typical affair and-“oh no, a body in the garden!”-scenario.

I also know that he went missing and has never been seen since, it makes the things he wrote even scarier.

The more he did that, the less he looked like the man I had married.

Where was the love? Where was the compassion? I couldn’t see it. All I saw was someone who was fed up. With life. With this house. With me.

Another example of the author’s vanilla, un-engaging writing style.

I know that I’m a little old to be worried about seeing a monster or a man in a mask, but I still don’t tempt fate, keeping my eyes down on the sink rather than up and out to whatever lurks in the darkness.

Turning around to get a look at it, I’m not sure what I’m expecting to see. But when I do see, I can’t help but scream either.

She definitely deserves one of my homemade cakes now.

Life demands that we earn money from a source of income, and if that source was to suddenly stop, how do things get paid for?

That was another close shave, and there have been far too many of them recently, but it appears that I have gotten away with it again.

Based on the context, I’ve concluded this is a spelling error.

That’s why I’m going to ask my husband for his opinion.

Why, girl? Why?

Number 31. I’ll never forget that address as long as I live.’

I can’t stress how not ominous this statement is.

But I’m also getting another strong sign now that I should leave here and go home. It’s because the person sitting next to me is still telling me all about how he believes the previous occupants of my house killed their son and got away with it.

The second sentence in this snippet very much infuriated me. While I understand the desire to hold the reader’s hand and guide them through the story, most psychological thrill seekers prefer to conclude these things on their own; there’s zero mystery left, or an ominously feeling created.

It’s hard to stop the shiver that runs down my spine when I consider the possibility that there might be a skeleton somewhere so close to where my family currently resides.

It’s certainly a sorry state of affairs when I spend more time listening to a drunk guy in a pub than I do listening to my own wife.

She’s nothing if not passionate about things, and God help anybody who gets in her way.

I definitely would have dropped my wine glass then.

I guess that answers my question about whether a mother would know or not.

‘You have your children at home. Please stop wasting time on other people’s and cherish your own. You never know when the day might come that they are no longer around for you to love them.’

But when I see him, I get a big surprise.

We know. This is not a surprise.

I’m not that deep of a guy to spend too much time trying to figure it out. All I know is that I’ve done some things right and some things wrong, and I’ll probably carry on that way until the day that I die.

There is a body in this garden.

I almost put this book down for good after reading this sentence. Almost.

It just doesn’t belong to who she thought it did.

But whatever the case, one thing is for sure. 31 Birchfield Drive is no ordinary home.

Are we shocked? No. Are the events that transpired leading up this conclusion engaging, thrilling, exciting, or in any way unpredictable? Also no!